


The Beauty of Sunflowers—Ephemeral

by ContrEeri



Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-26 02:34:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17133416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContrEeri/pseuds/ContrEeri
Summary: Sai has never been in love.





	The Beauty of Sunflowers—Ephemeral

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the [Naruto Year End Bash](https://narutoyearendbash.tumblr.com/), hosted on Tumblr. The prompt I used was "Naruto is like the sun on a summer's day, and Sai wants to capture that essence and immortalize it in his sketchbook. It's it's never as beautiful and brilliant as the real deal". I probably went in a vastly different direction than the original prompt submitter was thinking, but I hope they enjoy! NaruSai is one of those under appreciated pairings that I've secretly loved for years but up until recently it seemed like no one else liked it??? So I'm glad I got the chance to write this!

_i have drawn you here_  
_traced the edges of your body_  
with my brush  
canvas and paint  
drying in the sun 

_you have drawn me in_  
_locked me inside of your soul_  
with a look  
hearts and hands  
lying in a bed 

_art hangs, untouched  
and you're still here, untouchable_

\---

Sai had never been in love. 

Something about trauma and suppressing emotions. Something about being a child soldier. Something about needing to read books to understand the world around him, the people around him, the feelings within him. 

Sai had never been in love. 

He read a book once about love. He read two books. He read three. He never asked anyone to explain “in love”; never asked anyone to help him understand what it might feel like "just in case". He was never going to be in love, but he read book after book, and in the quiet dark between missions his paints spilling on pallets and his brushes forgotten in cups of water that would ruin them, he painted what he thought love might be. 

There are paintings hidden in a portfolio, black ink on white canvas with a splash of red like blood. 

The books all say love is worth fighting for, dying for. 

They never say it's worth living for. 

Sai has never been in love, but he wants to be. 

*** 

“Hey, hey,” Naruto's voice is loud and bright, breaking his concentration. 

Sai closes the book, covering its title. He cannot say why he wants to keep this a secret. He thinks about the seal on his tongue, the secrets he must keep on pain of death, and thinks about the words he's read over and over, 'Love is worth dying for.' 

“If you're looking for something to read, I'd recommend something a little less advanced. The library has a wonderful children's section, I hear.” 

Naruto doesn't rise to his bait, though he does pout, puffing one of his cheeks full of air and scrunching his brows in consternation. “Pft. Well, if you're done being so smart,” he says, sarcastic and teasing, “Sakura-chan and I are going for ramen.” 

What else is new, Sai thinks, smiling up at Naruto. “Of course,” he replies, slipping the book into his bag. 

Naruto's returning smile catches the sun, like it always does, and Sai feels strange—warm and incomprehensible—like he always does when Naruto smiles at him. He has tried on many occasions to capture that smile, but his paints never cooperate. His brushes revolt against him. The canvas seems to dull the truth of the radiance in Naruto's eyes. 

Sai cannot fathom why.

He doesn't ask anyone for a second opinion on those failed attempts, which are tucked into the same portfolio he has hidden his studies on love. Sometimes he takes them out, spreads them across his bedroom floor in the hopes they might reveal something to him. They never do and he stuffs them back into their dark home, like skeletons that have fallen unceremoniously from a closet. Their edges are wearing from all the questions they haven't answered for him. 

His gaze is drawn, ever and always, to Naruto walking beside him. His blue eyes seem to sparkle like the surface of a clear blue lake—106 with hints of 109, Sai thinks distracted. Naruto's eyes reflect a happiness Sai has never understood, belying the hurts Naruto's endured time and again. He catches Sai watching him and grins, closing his eyes and denying Sai any further contemplation of the color of his eyes and the joy in them. 

“Somethin' on my face?” he asks, turning away from Sai again. 

“Only the usual ugliness,” Sai says because it will upset Naruto and maybe he'll open his eyes again. He doesn't believe it, and from the way Naruto only opens one eye to peer at him, still grinning, he doesn't buy that it's a genuine insult either. 

Naruto barks out a laugh, throwing his arm around Sai. “You ass,” he chuckles. “I'm so ugly then stop staring.” 

Sai's skin tingles, knots in his stomach. Naruto is as warm as the sun. “It's very difficult to look away from tragedy,” Sai says, pleasant and easy. He knows this to be true—tragedy draws the eye the way the mundane never does; and beauty and ugliness are in a constant fight to hypnotize. He has studied the gruesome and ugly in art; he has studied the beautiful and the divine; he has even studied the mundane. 

Naruto is neither mundane nor ugly, but Sai sees the tragedy of his existence beneath the beauty of it too. Perhaps that is why he has never been able to capture Naruto on canvas—there is too much contradiction within him and Sai still has not fully grasped what that contradiction is. 

They arrive at Ichiraku with Naruto's arm still slung around Sai's shoulders, a comfortable embrace that Sai misses the instant Naruto leaves his side. He understands this feeling only as the cold air that touches his skin where Naruto's arm should still have been and a dull ache in his chest, like someone has punched a hole through him. It is not an uncommon feeling—Sai often feels as though there is a hole in his chest, particularly where Naruto is concerned, and he had stopped trying to understand that feeling long before Naruto ever came into his life. 

“Aw, man, Sakura-chan's not here yet,” Naruto whines, taking his usual seat as Teuchi beams from behind the counter. Sai takes his seat quietly beside Naruto, watching intently as Naruto grins up at the old man. Naruto adjusts his hitai-ate, his fingers brushing the mess of his hair in the process—629 for a base color, followed by highlights of 651—before he settles in and decides on his order. It's the same as always. 

“Oh, I have something new on the menu,” Teuchi says excitedly, jumping into the description as Naruto's mouth waters. 

“Then I'll have that, dattebayo!” Naruto is predictable—at least in this. Sai has learned that Naruto is only predictable where it concerns the things he loves: he is predictably protective of his friends; one can always count on his love of ramen; and he always waits for Sasuke at the village gates at the start of every month. 

Thoughts of Sasuke make something curl in the pit of Sai's stomach—it is a cold, dreadful feeling that he has no reference for. He tries not to think about Sasuke. He tries not to think about Naruto waiting, patient and loyal, for Sasuke's return home at the start of every month and the week that follows where it's all anyone can do to tear Naruto from Sasuke's side. 

Naruto's smile is different when Sasuke is in Konoha. His eyes are different, too—111 with streaks of 161 and flecks of 160. The contradiction of beauty and tragedy blurs when Sasuke is there. Sai usually has trouble deciding where the tragedy ends and the beauty begins, but when he's with Sasuke, the whole thing becomes a cacophony of tragedy and beauty that confuses him as much as his studies on love. 

So he tries not to think about it; he tries not to watch Naruto as closely when Sasuke is around. 

It's never as easy as it should be. 

“Hey, guys,” Sakura says, sliding into the seat on Naruto's other side. She catches Sai in the midst of his contemplation and raises an eyebrow. Sai simply smiles. 

Sakura's eyes—a solid 371—always seem to read things on his face that he never realizes are there.

He looks away, not sure what secret he's guarding, but somehow knowing there's one to guard nonetheless. 

The book in his bag weighs suddenly heavier.

***

“You know,” Sakura says, leaning against a wall in his apartment. She has invited herself in after offering to walk him home. He'd wanted to avoid this, afraid for the secret he doesn't know he has, but Sakura is persistent especially when she cares. 

“Do I?” he asks when she is quiet for too long, when the sentence hangs unfinished and feels more cryptic than simple in nature. 

She sighs. “Don't do this to yourself.”

She seems so incredibly sad—Sai has never noticed the tiny flecks of 367 in her eyes until now; the sorrow has brought it out in stark relief. “What am I doing?” he asks, setting down his bag with the book that weighs as heavy as the seal on his tongue. 

“Don't play dumb,” Sakura says, gentler than the words themselves. “I'm not stupid, and Naruto isn't nearly as oblivious as he acts. He'll figure it out, too, and once he does...” 

Sai's gaze finds his black portfolio, full of skeletons. “What exactly will he figure out, Sakura-san?” 

Sakura huffs. “Dammit, Sai. Why are you being so difficult?”

Sai's eyes burn. He wants to understand—the book in his bag, the paintings he's never been able to paint, the color of Naruto's eyes, the hole in his chest—but he doesn't. “I'm sorry. I wasn't aware I was being difficult.” 

“Sai?” Sakura steps close, putting her hand on his shoulder. “I'm sorry. I know it's hard to love someone who doesn't love you back—”

Sai has never been in love. 

“I've never been in love.” 

Sakura knows this is a lie. 

Sai does not. 

“Sai, please,” she tries, voice shaking. Sai's shoulders shake too. There is something hot and sharp stinging his eyes—not tears, it can't be tears because that would mean he was crying, and why would he cry? He's not in love. He has never been in love. And his heart is not breaking. 

“I truly do not know what you are talking about.” 

Sakura is quiet for a long, painful moment. Sai can remember—in stark, vivid, horrible detail—every study of love he has ever painted; every failed attempt at capturing the beauty behind Naruto's eyes, his smile, and the tragedy just beneath. He chokes back a sob. 

“I'm sorry, Sai,” Sakura says brokenly. “I didn't—I didn't mean to—I'm so sorry.” 

She is sorry. So is Sai. 

“I—I would like to be alone.” It's a lie, but he doesn't know what else to say or do. He wants to rip open his portfolio and burn every last painting within it; destroy the secrets he didn't know he had. 

“Are—are you sure?” 

Sai nods. 

Sakura leaves slowly, as though she might stay despite his request; as though she knows he shouldn't be alone. 

The echo of the door closing behind her is loud and heavy, like a glass breaking in the middle of the night and tearing him from sleep. He holds his breath, wills his heart to not beat wildly in his chest, and goes to his portfolio. It takes him twenty minutes to lay each painting within out on his floor. He arranges them by date, noting that his studies on love changed after he started painting Naruto. There was more red—508, 528, 525—after Naruto. Black becomes a highlight, becomes the accent while red takes center stage. 

He rearranges the paintings—studies on love together, separate from Naruto. He doesn't love Naruto. 

He can't. 

The studies on love don't look right without Naruto mixed between them. The studies on love become empty without their subject. Sai's throat is tight and his vision blurs.

One of the paintings—Naruto smiling up at him, his eyes shut and his hair blowing on the wind—gets water on it. Sai stares at the droplets that have fallen onto Naruto's painted cheeks. He touches Naruto's cheek, his heart aching like it does whenever Naruto touches him, and then pulls away. He touches his own face and his fingers come away wet. 

“Is this love?”

There is only silence and the truth that is painted before him. 

***

Sai is in love. 

He paints in the quiet morning, with the gray light streaming into his living room. There are paintings scattered across his floor and tears on his face, but he knows now. Finally. 

Sai is in love. 

He is in love and he paints, knowing that it is a love so hopeless he thinks the world might swallow him up. His hand shakes as he lifts his paintbrush—its tip dipped in 111. He has been painting all night. He has not slept. 

There is a library book open at his kitchen table. It is open to a page where love makes the most sense. The rest of it is just excess; just useless words to fill the white space of the pages needed to fill an entire book for publishing. There are beautiful pros within that book, but it is all useless—except for that page. 

Naruto's eyes stare back at Sai as he dips his paintbrush into a different color without remembering to clean the brush. He has forgotten to clean his brush for every change of color for the last two hours and Naruto's eyes are the bluest they have ever been. They shine as though they are real, as though they are looking at Sai with all the love Sai has seen reflected in those eyes time and again. 

Sai knows that this is the only time Naruto will ever look at him this way. Sai knows that Naruto will never love him, will never share the contradiction of his beauty and tragedy with him, will never look at him with eyes made of 111 and flecked with 161 and 160. Sai knows this as deeply as he knows the paints in his collection and the fibers of his brushes.

The books always say love is worth it, that things always work out in the end. Sai doesn't think things will work out for him and he doesn't know how he's supposed to work through that because he's never been in love before now. Before now, love was a big question mark; before this moment, love was an enigma that he thought would always be so. 

Now, Sai is in love.

And he wishes he wasn't.


End file.
